


Another Song For You

by luninosity



Series: Holiday Fic [7]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: About Time, Emotions!, Epiphanies, Fluff, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Protective!Erik, Protectiveness, Realization, Sexual Content, Telepathy, Valentine's Day, hurt!charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:52:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik and Charles learn about relationships; Valentine’s Day is not fun for Charles; Erik tries to go shopping for gifts; lots of pure old-fashioned hurt/comfort fluffiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Song For You

**Author's Note:**

> More Holiday Fic! Valentine's Day (written May 2012). Title and opening lines courtesy of the Foo Fighters (as always); this time, “Disenchanted Lullaby” because I like the lyrics. I like to think of this, like all the Holiday Fic, as AU in the sense that if any of this had happened, the Beach Divorce wouldn't've...

_I may be scattered_   
_a little shattered_   
_what does it matter_   
_no one has a fit like I do_   
_I'm the only one that fits you_

Erik’s not good at relationships. It’s not as if he’s ever had the opportunity, or the inclination, to try having a real one, at least not the type that isn’t from the start neatly planned to end with someone else dying. Bloodily.

He has a great deal of experience with blood. And very little with affection.

Charles isn’t good at relationships either, at least. Erik takes some comfort in this realization. He might’ve imagined the opposite, given the telepathy and the number of beds Charles has fallen into and out of over the years, but in fact the end result of these experiences seems to be an extensive sexual repertoire and the tendency to assume he’s right and Erik’s wrong ninety-nine percent of the time.

Charles _is_ right more often than he’s wrong, but not as often as he’d like. This state of affairs causes not-infrequent frustrations for them both, for different reasons.

The sex, however, is incredible. Charles is very flexible, completely uninhibited, and wonderfully unselfish about sharing every last drop of pleasure. Erik, who has barely had sex at all, and then in decidedly less than ideal circumstances, does his best to keep up, amid all the discoveries and delight. Charles seems to approve of his efforts.

Charles also talks a great deal, in bed. Not aloud, not when those lips are otherwise occupied, but in their heads.

Erik has _never_ been talkative in bed. Erik has never been talkative in his life.

Charles doesn’t ask for responses, not exactly, and at first Erik stays quiet out of habit and uncertainty—what _does_ one say at those specific moments?—but on the occasions that he ventures Charles’s name, or agreement, or suggestions, the response is always affirmative and generally excited. So, gradually, he finds himself speaking up more.

_I do like that_ , Charles tells him, one contented evening, after a week or so of unbelievably erotic encounters. Most of those have happened in Charles’s spacious bedroom, but occasionally other places have gleefully participated as well. Like the study, earlier that day. And the kitchen. And once, memorably, the couch in front of the television, followed by the floor in front of the television.

The slight amount of rug burn had been negligible. Well worth it.

_Agreed_ , Charles observes, and Erik nods decisively and then answers the first implied question. _I like talking to you, as well._ He does.

Charles draws Greek letters over Erik’s hip with one finger, idly reconstructing the alphabet, and admits, _I’ve never done this before, in fact._

“What? Of course you have. This was your idea. Especially _this_.” He summons up the vivid image, not that either of them needs the reminder.

Charles doesn’t quite grin, or blush, but the impression Erik receives is somewhere in between. “You enjoyed that, as I recall…” _And I didn’t mean that. I meant this. The…conversations. Being able to talk to you, when we’re…well, doing THAT, for example._

_Really?_

_Yes. I could never—I’d either have to turn everything off, which is—_ Charles hesitates. Flinches. Erik catches that restless hand in his, instinctively, and after a second eloquent fingers squeeze back.

_Or I’d have to be very careful, picking up enough to know what the other person might want but not losing control. And not projecting, and that's—it’s more difficult than you’d think, to be sharing those sensations at that moment and NOT start shouting ‘oh god yes’ in someone else’s unprepared head_. And small shadowy memories scurry around the edges of the words: past encounters, slip-ups, shock and revulsion and Charles smoothing other people’s troublesome recollections away, tensions and stresses and hard-won command.

Behind those thoughts, though, there’s something new. Relief. Joy. Liberation. Charles can let go, can be free to talk and cry out in release and be accepted, now. With Erik.

“Anyway,” Charles says, and shrugs, and yawns, _that’s all I meant._

And Erik says _You can talk in my head as much as you want to during sex, Charles,_ and Charles smiles at him, heartbreakingly bright, and then falls asleep as if that’s all he needed to hear.

So they might not be that good at relationships. But perhaps they’re not that bad. Or perhaps it’s not even a relationship; they’ve never given it a name, never discussed what they’re doing. Despite all the talking.

Erik doesn’t want to have to figure out what they’re doing. He has his own mission and Charles wants to save the world and possibly advance the cause of science in the process, and their paths might’ve converged with dramatic force, but they could diverge with equal explosiveness, too. He knows that.

He’s genuinely _not_ good at relationships. They are distractions. They require him to care.

But he takes each smile, each slow kindling of warmth in blue eyes over a chessboard, each word spilling over into his thoughts at that most intimate of moments, and tucks them away carefully, because he can’t lose them, because even when he leaves they’ll never not be the best moments of his life.

And he learns that Charles loves lazy mornings and is pathetically miserable before the day’s first cup of tea. And he learns that he, Erik, is the sort of person who will wake up early and go for a run and then stop by the kitchen, make tea, and bring it back with him, upstairs.

He learns, or relearns, a few long-unused words, in his English vocabulary. One of them might be _happy_. It’s not a feeling he’s spent much time in company with, so it’s hard to know for sure.

And all of this is why, when Raven says casually over breakfast one morning, “Valentine’s Day is in two weeks, I assume you’ve got something strategically amazing worked out for my brother, since the two of you are dating, and also doing other things that I don’t even want to think about?” Erik’s fork flies out of his hand and hits the wall and sticks there, quivering.

They both stare at it for a second. It chooses to ignore the combined gazes. Cheerfully continues gouging holes into the fresh paint.

“Um,” Raven says, “so I’m guessing I shouldn’t ask?” and Erik snaps “ _No_ ” and then decides he’s done with the eggs after all, partly because he’s suddenly not hungry and partly because they’re damn hard to eat without a fork.

“Okay.” Raven gets up, puts her plate in the sink, and then, rather pointedly, sets her own fork down atop it. Just to be obnoxious, evidently. Because this is what siblings do.

Hmm. He’s sleeping with Charles. He’s…dating is a ridiculous word. He is not dating Charles. Wanting to spend all the possible moments with, yes; having mindblowingly spectacular sex with, yes; feeling his heart turn idiotic somersaults in his chest every time Charles tosses him a conspiratorial grin, yes. But surely they’re not _dating_. Because that’s a ridiculous word.

Apparently not-dating a person means that said person’s sister feels entitled to annoy him just as she would any other family member.

He should probably be angry about that.

At some point during his mental reverie, Raven’s wandered out the door, no doubt to torment another helpless victim and ruin his morning, too. Charles won’t be up yet—Charles loathes early hours with a passion otherwise only reserved for undergraduates who plagiarize and any fruit with tiny seeds—but Hank’s a more likely target anyway.

The sunlight pops into the kitchen through the window, kindly, at just the right angle to reflect dazzling light off the fork and into his eyes, and Erik says, out loud and with considerable feeling, “Damn.”

 

He tries to tell himself that it’s only been three weeks. Not even a month. Surely Charles won’t expect anything. Charles hasn’t even mentioned the holiday.

Charles probably has some sort of elaborate secret plan. Erik can’t read minds and while Charles has a terrible poker face he’s actually astoundingly good at avoiding topics he doesn’t want to discuss, and Charles _can_ read minds, and so what if Charles has been busy working out some exquisitely perfect evening of satisfying Erik’s favorite fantasies?

Not that that hasn’t happened, in various ways, already. But still. Charles enjoys a challenge. Which means that over the next week or so, Erik comes up with increasingly unlikely reasons to leave the mansion and run to the store.

Although he always comes back with whatever he’s been pretending he needs to buy, because one has to validate one’s cover story, Charles starts looking at him oddly, and finally he has to pause the expeditions in favor of reassuring his not-boyfriend that Erik would in fact rather kiss him senseless than go purchase toilet paper. Again.

That’s acceptable, though. Not only because he gets to kiss Charles, but because he’s started doubting his own sanity, after the last venture. He’d found himself standing in a line at a Hallmark store, clutching a fluff-filled creature that might be a bear or a dog or possibly a llama, and wondering how Charles might feel about bewilderingly indeterminate stuffed animals, and had had to bolt outside because the shelves had started shaking, around him, in ominous forewarning.

Valentine’s Day is a terrible holiday. And the world, merrily embracing the flood of pink hearts and glitter—in the stores, in television advertisements, in the messages on the vile pastel candy hearts Raven leaves around in mismatched bowls—is a cruel and uncaring place.

At least they’re pretty much consistently sleeping in Charles’s rooms, now. He can use his own unoccupied bedroom to store various assorted boxes. One contains chocolate-covered pineapple, of which he feels a tiny bit proud. That’d been hard to find.

Charles has been smiling at him frequently. Erik at this point is panicked enough to wonder whether it’s more frequently than usual, and if so what that might mean.

At this _particular_ point, though, two days before the dreadful holiday, he’s for once not worrying, because he’s lying sprawled out over Charles’s bed, contentment soaking into his bones like unquestionable reality, like the clarity of the stars outside. He has one arm around Charles, who’s curled up catlike into his warmth, and the sweat is drying on their skin, and they really should shower but he never wants to move again.

_Me, either._

_I thought you were asleep_. He’d certainly tried his best to tire Charles out.

_Nearly. I like feeling you, though. In my head. When you’re happy._

Erik attempts, and fails, to find any good reply to that. All the words sound too trite or inadequate and he’s not sure what he wants to say in any case.

One helpful phrase wells up, floating to the surface. He pushes it back down. That can’t be true. He doesn’t say _those_ words.

Charles plainly hears that thought, and equally plainly makes the decision not to push. “Thank you,” Erik offers, out loud this time. It’s easier that way.

“Not a problem,” Charles says, drowsily, into his chest. _I’m feeling horribly lazy in any case. So, you see, it’s mostly for my own sake._

“Of course it is. I know you’re not really as altruistic as you pretend to be.” _Thank you_.

“Guilty as charged, I’m afraid. But you lo—you want me regardless. And also thank _you_ ; that was brilliant.” _Oh, Erik, you’re welcome_.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever been called brilliant in bed before.” _And so were you_. Pure honesty, in that statement. Charles _is_ brilliant. In bed, or out of it.

“Then it’s about time.” _Oh, I know_. Accompanied by the lemon-drop-and-sunshine sensation of Charles grinning, mischievously, in his head. Erik licks his lips, involuntarily, and Charles laughs, and then sobers, briefly. “Speaking of time, I should probably tell you something, or perhaps warn you, that might be a more appropriate term…”

“What?”

Charles yawns. Resettles his head against Erik’s shoulder. “I’ve never really enjoyed Valentine’s Day.”

And Erik, who’s been vaguely wondering whether he should try flowers or if that’s foolish because Charles owns approximately five hundred and two rosebushes, feels the abrupt onset of sheer horror.

Fortunately, he has enough self-discipline to keep the reaction off his face, and Charles is too relaxed and too satisfied to be listening in. He hopes.

He twists his head around to look at jewel-shaded eyes, which appear somewhat startled, no doubt because Erik’s shoulder has gone from entirely relaxed to woodenly tense, under him. “Why not?”

“It’s difficult to—I’ve never tried to explain, but I do think you should know in advance.” Charles blinks at him, sleepily. _I didn’t think you’d think the day was important, either. I’m sorry. Also, I was comfortable, you know._

_Sorry. Better?_ “Can you try?” He runs a finger along Charles’s spine, slowly, memorizing each individual knob of bone.

“Yes. And, um, all right…” _You know how intense some thoughts, certain emotions, can be. And you know that large groups of people, all feeling the same way, end up amplifying those sensations. Reinforcing them._

“Yes…”

“So this holiday is a rather emotional one.” Charles taps fingers over Erik’s stomach, thinking, finding appropriate words. The amber light from the bedside table, turned down low on purpose because Charles is a romantic at heart, forms pools of warmth closely around them, over fingertips and exposed skin and quiet bedsheets.

_Anticipation, expectance, intimacy…obligation, tension, inadequacy, as well. The proposals that are accepted—or rejected. The nervousness. The excitement of first dates, first touches, first times. The mornings after, regrets and worries and giddy love. Overwhelming, really._

“Oh.”

“And also all the sex. _Very_ intense emotions.”

“…oh.”

“Essentially, on the day after I’m going to very much need to have sex with you.”

“Um…I think I can handle that. What about the actual day? Are you…” The question stops there, because he’s not certain what he’s asking.

“I usually end up sleeping most of the day, I’m afraid.” Blue eyes sparkle at him, a little rueful, apologetic. “I’m sorry that I won’t be terribly good company. Even if I’m awake, the headaches are…impressive, let’s say.”

“I’m sorry.” He runs a hand through Charles’s hair, as if touching that head now might help ward off pain in the future. Charles smiles, understanding.

“That’s all, really. I did think I should warn you, in case you were contemplating making plans, and so you won’t have to wonder why I feel like spending all day in bed. The timing is never exact, of course. People never celebrate—or don’t celebrate—simultaneously.”

“Inconsiderate of them.”

“Yes, they should all realize how difficult they make life, for a telepath, and plan their sex lives accordingly.” Charles grins at him again. “Shower? And speaking of sex lives…”

“Again? Already?”

“Well, if you’re too tired, I’m certain I can enjoy a shower by myself…”

“ _Not_ an option,” Erik says, firmly, and the resultant experience proves to be enjoyable for both of them, and more than likely for the showerhead as well.

 

The actual morning of the holiday, as if in defiance of Charles’s warning and Erik’s consequent vigilance, begins like any other day. Charles wakes up and finds tea on his nightstand and tries to kiss Erik through a yawn, and wanders downstairs and eats breakfast and gets into a genially academic argument with Hank about enhancements to Cerebro and experimental neural mapping techniques. Erik doesn’t really listen, though he does point out the occasional engineering design flaw—titanium does not have the tensile strength they seem to think it does—and the larger problem that they’re both overlooking, namely the fact that there is no universe in which he, Erik, is going to allow either Charles or Hank to stick needles into Charles’s brain and use him as a test subject.

They look at him with identically affronted expressions, at that one. Erik raises his eyebrows. Charles sighs, and then starts asking Hank about government funding for alternate, non-invasive processes. Erik doesn’t visibly smirk, because that’d be tactless, but he lets Charles feel it anyway.

Charles does seem more or less like himself throughout the morning. Once in a while he lifts one hand to rub at his temple, and sometimes stops in mid-sentence, attention diverted by something that isn’t there.

Erik lurks around the lab and contributes when he remembers that he can, in between scrutinizing Charles for any signs of pain. Charles rolls his eyes, but doesn’t actually argue, which makes Erik certain that he’s not wrong to be worried.

And the interruptions, the obvious headaches, never go away. They only grow worse, over time.

Charles does stop trying to work, and returns to the mansion for lunch, though this is in part due to Raven turning up and reminding them to eat, and in part due to Erik suggesting to Hank, while the subject of his concern is busy researching an errant bit of data, that he stop making any sorts of demands on Charles right the hell now or face the consequences.

Might’ve been less of a suggestion, and more of a threat. If one wants to interpret it that way, which Hank evidently does. Even more so when Erik smiles at him.

Raven must have been noticing, too, even in that brief encounter; she demands, “Are you all right?” the second before Erik can, after Charles shakes his head at the mention of food.

“Peanut butter,” she says, “and bananas. You _like_ bananas.”

Charles winces. “Not at the moment…”

Erik has to think about that one for a second, and then carefully sets down his own now-problematic food. Thinks, at Charles, _Sorry._

_No, it’s all right, it was a joke. Well, partially_. “…but I think I am going to go lie down, if you all don’t mind.” Charles lifts his eyebrows inquiringly at the rest of the group, who all nod, except for Sean, who says, “Wait, I’m still confused about the banana thing, can you—” and then shuts up with an abruptness that suggests that someone’s kicked him under the table. Possibly Alex, who looks suspiciously pleased with himself.

Charles nods back at everyone, starts to stand up, wobbles on his feet, and Erik’s right there to fling an arm around his shoulders in support. A bulwark. A source of extra strength, if Charles needs that, will take that, from him.

_Thank you, and yes_ , Charles says, and accepts a minimal amount of assistance until they’ve made it upstairs and away from well-meaning eyes, at which point he collapses into Erik’s arms.

“Charles!”

“I’m fine, I just can’t quite stand up…”

“Those two sentences make no logical sense!”

“Oh, sorry…”

Together they get Charles into the bedroom and folded into a luxurious heap of pillows and blankets, all of which gather around him defensively, daring the outside world to produce any more pain.

“You were…you seemed all right. Earlier.” That comes out more like an accusation than he means it to— _why didn’t you tell me?_ —but his voice doesn’t feel inclined to steadiness, right now. Traitorous vocal cords.

“I was, earlier. Or that might’ve been the Vicodin. I did take more, while you were intimidating Hank—don’t intimidate Hank, by the way, he’s already petrified every time you smile—but I don’t think they’re working yet.”

“…you’re taking Vicodin?”

“…I didn’t tell you that?”

“No!”

“I…didn’t. I’m sorry. It’s only today. This holiday…”

“It’s that bad?”

“Sorry,” Charles says again, and then shuts his eyes, and Erik’s heart stutters and skips a beat, inside his chest.

“Charles?”

“Come here,” Charles asks, softly, not opening his eyes, and Erik slides down into the nest of concerned bedclothes and offers his arms as sanctuary, too.

_You feel good._

_So do you_. He is slightly hungry, since he’s gotten used to regular meals now—something else to blame on Charles—and never got to finish eating that sandwich, but he’s trained himself to ignore all types of discomfort; skipping lunch won’t kill him.

Charles, on the other hand, looks frighteningly pale, and more tiny than ever, surrounded by all the pillows. Even more so when he shivers, once, and the lines of hurt etch themselves deeper, around closed eyes.

“What can I do? To help?”

“Not much more than what you are doing, unfortunately….only time ever helps, to be honest. Well, time and the marvels of modern pharmaceuticals. They’re fantastic, once they start working.”

“Where _is_ your Vicodin?” He knows Charles wasn’t carrying an entire bottle around, in the lab. He’d’ve seen it.

“Over there.” Charles waves a hand, unhelpfully. “On the dresser.”

“Oh.” He gets up and collects it, realizes immediately how pointless the action is—not as if Charles can take more painkillers immediately—but clings to the container anyway, in case it could use the reassurance.

Even if there’s nothing else he can offer now, he can be prepared for the next time. He has to do _something_.

Charles smiles a little, pats him on the arm—as if Erik is the one who needs comforting—and then stops talking, and Erik sits there on the pillowy bed and holds both his hands and watches the afternoon sunlight sear golden tracks across the sky, lower and lower as the day goes by.

 

Erik’s not sure whether it’s from the drugs, or the telepathic fatigue, or some combination of the two, but Charles sleeps all afternoon. And most of the evening. And into the night.

He wakes up once when Erik tries to convince him to eat, mostly unsuccessfully. The encounter leaves them both exhausted, Charles because he’s been forced to sit up and consume half a bowl of soup and Erik because of all the bone-deep and unrelenting fear.

Charles curls wearily back into his pillows and shuts his eyes, and the next time he wakes up it’s because he’s in pain, and Erik, who’s been feeling the phantom tendrils of sensation bleed past fraying mental shields for the past twenty minutes, is waiting with Vicodin and tea.

Charles smiles, with some effort and more sincerity, and says “Thank you” and leans into Erik’s supportive arm, and then doesn’t move.

“Charles,” Erik says, and then, more loudly, “ _Charles_.”

“You don’t have to shout…”

“I wasn’t.” And now he’s even more concerned, _because_ he wasn’t. “Are you…what else do you need? Just tell me. I can do…whatever you need me to do.”

Charles remains quiet for too long, and Erik holds him more tightly and wonders whether the thumping of his own heartbeat is overly loud as well.

“Do you know,” Charles murmurs, into his shoulder, “I can hear half the people in the greater New York area having sex…”

“I…did not know that. I do now. You can’t…block them out? Or…” He waves a hand, out of English words; it’s meant to be a simple gesture, but the metal fixtures, doorknobs and drawer handles, rattle in response. Erik mentally swears at himself. Reinforces his own slipping control, at every level.

Charles, and the lights and the drawers, aren’t going to be helped by his anxiety. He has to stay calm. Focused. Charles needs him.

Erik’s not used to being needed. Not anymore.

“I’m trying,” Charles tells his shoulder, “but that’s rather a lot of, ah, stimulation, to push away. Very…passionate. And sometimes quite creatively so. You should see a few of—”

“…ah. No, thank you, I think I’ve got the idea. Um. Only half?”

This gets Charles to laugh, warm against the skin of Erik’s neck, through his open shirt collar. “Well…most of the other half are…not enjoying the holiday, let’s say. Some of them simply don’t care. I like those people; they don’t give me a headache. More of a headache. But…all the disappointments, loneliness, frustrations…I’d be happier if it were only the sex, to be honest. And even happier if I could be having sex with you.”

“Of course you would. To both. I know how much you like having sex with me.” Which makes Charles laugh again, as intended.

“Not exactly humble of you…not that I’m going to disagree. Can I have sex with you tomorrow? Or the day after? All of this ought to be over, by then. And I think I’ve learned a few new things…”

“I like having sex with you, too. And not tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Not until you’re capable of sitting up on your own.” He runs a hand through Charles’s hair; it curls against his fingers like silk. Sensual and alluring, and, at the moment, delicate as silk as well.

Charles isn’t delicate, a fact which Erik knows intimately. Not in any way, not physically, not emotionally, not after a childhood that’s left him with pain-infused optimism and scars to match Erik’s own. Charles can be ruthlessly persistent and brilliantly argumentative and charming and manipulative and can startle Erik into laughter at random moments even though he’d never imagined he could laugh again.

Right now Charles _is_ delicate, however. Vulnerable. Wounded. And Erik knows it won’t last, believes the words when Charles says that he’ll be fine in a day or two or three, the way that he believes in sapphire eyes and arms around him in the ocean. Charles _can_ be manipulative and stubborn and overly certain of his own ability to change the world, but he doesn’t lie. Not to Erik.

Erik can and does lie, but mostly to himself, or out loud, angrily, when Charles asks or pointedly doesn’t ask. Every time he says that he’s not planning to stay, every time he declares that he’s only using Charles’s optimism for his own ends, every time he claims that all this can only ever be temporary between them.

Nothing will ever be temporary between them. That is a truth.

When he tells himself that the reasons he stays are inexplicable, that is a lie. He knows the reasons. _The_ reason, really. Just one reason, one word, made up of two vowels and two consonants, and with them saying everything.

“I can sit up,” Charles protests, indignantly, “I could sit up. If I wanted to. I just…happen not to want to. Right now.”

“Mmm-hmm. If you want the rest of your tea, it is on your nightstand. But you’ll have to lean over there to get it.”

“Ah. Possibly I’m not thirsty either?”

Erik sighs, and waves a hand—it’s not a metal mug, but he’d stolen one of Charles’s spoons and bent it around the handle for precisely this reason, earlier—and Charles sighs, too, worrisomely meek. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Just…feel better. Soon. Please.” The continuing knowledge that Charles is in pain is causing him pain, too. Someplace very deep and very specific, inside his chest, a helpless kind of ache.

“I will. I promise. I like your creative use of the spoon, by the way. Very clever.”

“You do always enjoy it when I’m creative.”

“We both always enjoy it when you’re creative. Oh…I think the Vicodin is working, again, finally…oh, that helps.” When Charles breathes out, the entire world exhales, and shakes off some of the tension, too.

“You should go back to sleep. You said that helps, too.”

“I’ve been asleep all day…”

“Do you want me to read to you?”

“Maybe?”

Charles drifts into dreams again halfway through a biography of Gregor Mendel. Erik contemplates finishing the book on his own—he hates leaving projects half-completed, and he’s finding the narrative more interesting than he’d expected—but glances down at unmoving eyelashes, fallen onto soft skin, and makes himself stop.

He eases Charles back down onto the bed, into the welcome of sympathetically loyal pillows, and Charles doesn’t quite wake up but Erik catches the fleeting end of a thought anyway: _…better this time/Erik/comfort/safety/feeling loved/love you back even if you never say…_ And then the phrases blur and fade and dissolve into the dimness of sleep.

His first reaction is simply concern. Charles is losing control. Projecting. Not better at all.

And then he processes the content of those projections. And then sits very still while the world picks itself up and spins into a completely new and astonishing configuration.

Charles loves him. Will always love him. Without asking anything in return, except whatever Erik’s willing to give. Will push him and argue with him and attempt to convince him to be a better man and never once demand that Erik say words he’s not ready to let out.

Erik’s always thought that they were better men, already; certainly better than the rest of humanity. Humanity’s left Erik unimpressed at best and infuriated at worst, after all. And maybe he is better than they are, or most of them at any rate, but he’s not better than Charles.

Charles, who can love _him_. Erik.

The drawer handles, over on the too-alert dresser, quiver one more time, encouraging or coaxing or just reaffirming the veracity of that statement. Charles not only can love him, but does. And finds comfort in Erik’s presence.

He stares at the profusion of untidy hair and soft skin, against the blueness of the pillowcase. Charles doesn’t stir.

They’d bought these particular sheets to match Charles’s eyes, because Erik’d been thinking unspeakably filthy things at Charles in the store while running fingers over fabric, and Charles had blushed all over and then licked his lips and dragged Erik off to the tiny employees-only restroom and proceeded to enact a few of those fantasies by means of revenge.

Charles’d had the presence of mind to keep anyone from noticing when they emerged, but must’ve lost concentration at one crucial moment, because several of the employees had been visibly flustered, afterwards. Neither of them had quite managed to feel guilty, especially considering that Charles, not content with only blue, had picked up silk sheets in nearly every color in the store.

Erik had very definitely approved of the black, as well. And the red. And, even though it’d made Charles collapse into laughter, the magenta. He’d never _had_ brightly colored sheets before. All the flamboyance had turned out to be _fun_. Who knew?

He gazes down at Charles some more. One hand has settled next to that sleeping face, on the pillow, fingers curled inward, as if ready to tighten in response to pain.

Erik knows those hands intimately, the way they feel against his skin, inside him, or merely touching him, resting casually on a forearm, squeezing a shoulder in solidarity. Charles touches people so very often. Making connections. Reaching out, but always on that side of the act, always offering, always giving: Charles never asks to be touched, for himself.

Charles loves him. And Charles is in pain.

Erik’s holding his other hand, but suddenly that isn’t enough. He needs more. Needs Charles like oxygen, like nourishment, like the song of iron in his veins. The spoon-decorated mug, on the table, shudders with it.

“Charles,” he says, because he has to, because there’s something very crucial he needs to put into words, and then, voicelessly, _Charles?_ when the audible attempt receives no reply.

_Charles? Can you wake up? I know you’re tired and I’m so sorry but I need to say—this is important, I have to tell you—_

He gets a complete lack of response.

“Charles?”

All at once his own pulse sounds too loud, thundering through the nighttime space. Unfamiliar. An intrusion.

He squeezes the unmoving hand, in his. Those fingers don’t squeeze back. He tries again. Harder.

“Charles, I—this isn’t amusing, please stop it, please wake up now—I know you can, you were awake only a few minutes ago, Charles, _please_.”

When he tries shaking one shoulder, gently, Charles’s head rolls limply across the pillow. Erik swears, out loud and silently, in Polish and English and German, out of newborn shock and growing fear.

_Charles!_ he shouts. _Charles, please, please, you said it wasn’t that bad, you said you would be all right and I believed you, so wake up and tell me you weren’t lying to me, please just wake up now!_

Nothing.

“Charles,” he whispers, and then gives up because his voice is so uneven. _Charles, I don’t know what to do, I need you to tell me—I need you to be all right, I need to see you smile at me, I need to tell you that I love you, please!_

No reaction; Charles is breathing, though, Erik’s frantic checking reassures him of that much. It’s not enough.

“If you can hear me,” he manages, out loud, “I’ve just told you I love you, and I do, I have, I should have been telling you—” and then he has to stop because the tears have belatedly arrived. They trace scorching lines along his face, and tumble carelessly down onto his hand, and Charles’s lips because Erik is leaning over him, and he breathes _I’m sorry_ in case they’re burning Charles too.

He hasn’t wept in years. Decades. These are emotions he’d deliberately forgotten, until Charles had dived into his mind and pulled them back up, unashamedly, into the warm light of day.

He holds out the apology again, desperately, because he means it. _Charles I’m so sorry I don’t know what you need and I love you, I know you want to hear that, or I think—I hope—that you might want to hear that, and if you wake up I’ll say it as many times as you’d like but you have to wake up for me please—_

Not even the eyelashes stir, at the words. And all that skin is very pale, gold and ivory under the artificial lamplight.

“But,” Erik says, through the tears, “you can’t be gone, you _can’t_ , I love you,” and Charles doesn’t move.

He touches the closest white cheek with one hand, cradling that still face in his palm, following the arch of the cheekbone with his thumb. Charles likes being touched. Erik never has enjoyed touching other people, not really, but he likes touching Charles, because the gesture always makes Charles smile. Besides, that hair sometimes simply begs to be played with. And the freckles practically purr when he connects them, seeking out each one.

Should he call someone? Hank, or Raven? Hank is probably the closest to an expert that they’ve got, other than Charles himself, and Raven’s lived with her brother for years; perhaps she knows whether this is normal, or what to do to bring Charles back.

What if she doesn’t know? What if neither of them can offer any assistance?

_I don’t want to leave you,_ he tells Charles this time. _I don’t want this to be temporary. I’m sorry I ever said—I should have been saying—other words. The right words. I love you. And I never want you to—to leave me, either, so don’t, please don’t, and we will not leave each other, all right? Agreed?_

He holds his breath, in the opaque warmth of the night. The air is cloying in his lungs, clinging damply to his skin. He wants to open the window, but that would mean momentarily leaving Charles’s side.

The untamable hair is behaving itself, for once, but Erik brushes it away from closed blue eyes anyway. His fingers don’t tremble, because he’s spent years mastering his own reactions, but inside every piece of him is shivering and cold despite all the external heat.

When he slides his fingers away from the unnervingly docile hair, he brings them down to find that pulse again, fluttering in the graceful line of Charles’s throat. It’s there, but rapid. More rapid than it ought to be.

“I think,” he forces out, and swallows, “I need to call someone, Charles, I need to find Hank, or someone who can help, or—if I let go of your hand, if I leave, please be all right, please be here when I—I will only be a moment, I promise,” and soundlessly begs, one more despairing time, _wake up, Charles, I love you._

And Charles breathes in, and blinks, and looks up at him. _Erik…?_

_Charles—!!_

And there’s nothing in the world, in the universe, for one endless moment, except wide blue eyes and the feeling of those lips against his.

After a while he remembers that Charles, who isn’t complaining, probably needs to breathe, and backs off a centimeter or two, at which point Charles inquires, weakly but very clear, _Did you…say you love me?_

_I did. I do. I love you. You terrified me. Don’t ever do that again._

_I love you, Erik._

_I know._ The incredulity, the joy, the truthfulness, shimmers between their thoughts, shared and unmistakable and sweetly hot as burning stars. _And you know I love you. You—you knew it before I did, didn’t you?_ A flash of memory, an unspoken word, suggests that this might be so. _You never asked._

_I didn’t know. I thought—sometimes when you were thinking about me you felt—but I didn’t know. Not completely. And I wouldn’t ask you to say it if you weren’t ready. And…you might’ve said no._ Charles pauses to catch his breath, both bodily and mentally. He still sounds utterly drained, bruises that aren’t visible but throb in both their minds, and Erik says, out loud in case that might be easier, “Don’t talk, just stay quiet and rest, for now, all right? Let me hold you?”

Charles nods. Nestles into open arms. But then keeps trying to talk anyway. Of course. “Thank you.”

“I thought you were being quiet. Be quiet. And also…you’re not wrong. About me. I might have said no. If you’d asked. And I would have regretted it forever. You can tell me I’ve been an idiot if you want to. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry for your theoretical idiocy?”

“Ah….yes?”

“Then you’re theoretically forgiven.” _I’m sorry I terrified you. I didn’t mean to. Though, if it got you to admit that you love me…_

_You CAN’T honestly believe this was worth it, Charles! You could’ve—you_ —“If you’re going to not listen to me about resting, can you tell me—I mean, could you explain what—has this happened before, for you? On this day?” He doesn’t add _and if it has you could have warned me!_ because Charles will hear that loudly enough without the words being given voice.

“Ah…” Charles now looks slightly sheepish, which is an improvement on near-death. “It’s generally not this bad, but…some years are worse than others. When I told you before that I thought it was better, with you here, that wasn’t a lie. It’s only…a bad year.”

“So this _has_ happened before.”

“Once or twice…and before you ask, no, Raven doesn’t know. She knows I’m not fond of the holiday, and that I get headaches, but not anything beyond that. No one knows.” _Except you, now._

_Charles—_

_When I said thank you I meant…I could hear you. Talking to me. Asking me to wake up. That helped—you helped. Something to—I could hold on to you, through all the other voices._

_Charles, I love you._

_And I love you._

_And you can hold on to me forever if you need to._

And Charles smiles, and says, “Promise?” and then yawns, wearily, through starlight and lamplight.

“Promise,” Erik says right back, quietly earnest beneath the answering smile. “You should rest. Please.”

Charles puts his head back on Erik’s shoulder, and shuts his eyes, and one final _love you_ effervesces up between them, crystal-bright; even when the words fade, dwindling into exhaustion, the sincerity remains. Either one of them might’ve said it, or both of them at the same time; Erik’s positive, for no reason at all, that it’s the latter.

Charles falls asleep smiling, and Erik stays awake all night, listening to the rhythm of that heartbeat, keeping pace with his own.

 

The first thing Charles does, waking up, is to find Erik’s thoughts with his.

_Good morning_ , Erik says, and feels the wordless smile, blossoming in their minds like the sunrise outside.

_Did you not sleep, at all? You didn’t have to—_

_Yes, I did._

_Oh…I love you!_

_I love you,_ Erik says right back, and catches himself wanting to laugh, from exhaustion, from relief, from the giddy lightness of hearing Charles say those words. Of seeing Charles awake to say those words.

_Oh, Erik…I’m fine, now, honestly—_

_You are not._ He can tell. It’s not as bad, though. Nowhere near as bad. Not like the instant agony of flesh and bone shattering under too much pressure, but closer to the faraway ache of a once-broken bone in bitter weather. And they both know it’ll pass.

_All right, I will be fine, then. Tomorrow_. Out loud, Charles says, “I am a bit hungry,” and Erik says “Do you want me to—” and then has a perfect idea, and then has to think determinedly about Charles’s hair in order to keep said idea hidden for now.

“I always want you,” Charles observes, “and I’m glad you like my hair, but I have no clue what you’ve just tried to ask me regarding food. If that was about food; I’m a little afraid you’re planning to _eat_ the hair.”

“I accidentally find your hair in my mouth at least once a day, you know. Stay here.” He hops off the bed. _And here. I want to—I need to know you’re still—_

_I know. I will._ “My hair loves you, too. And your mouth, apparently. About which I entirely agree. Where are you going?”

“If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise.”

“If you tell me, I’ll be surprised _now_.”

Erik laughs, comes back to kiss him because Charles is laughing too, and then runs out the door.

_Please?_ Charles tries, in his head, and Erik retorts _Patience!_ and Charles mutters something about Erik and impatience and Charles’s clothing and not having any room to talk, and Erik just grins and agrees. He has no patience at all with Charles’s clothing. There are often many layers, and they get in his way.

_Hmm_ , Charles says, as Erik finds what he’s hunting for, plus a few other items that considerately present themselves. _I could remove some layers. And I am already in bed. Of course, you’re not here at the moment, so you might just have to imagine…_

Erik comes very close to dropping everything in the hallway, at the following image. _Stop that_ , he says firmly, _not for at least another day, all right? Until you’re—and you said you were hungry!_

_…I suppose I am. Later, then. Very definitely._ Charles sighs, not really objecting, and Erik opens the door and sees blue eyes light up, and then widen, as Charles notices the boxes he’s balancing.

“Erik, did you bring me chocolate?”

“It is…the day _after_ Valentine’s Day…and you did say you were hungry.” He could be embarrassed, since Charles will now know exactly how desperate he’s been regarding the holiday, but he doesn’t have any room for embarrassment, anymore.

He doesn’t have room for many once-familiar emotions. Like doubt. Like uncertainty. He does still have his mission and Charles does still want to rescue every single person he meets, but their goals are not so very different. They both look at the world and want to make it a better place. And they might argue along the way, about methods and means, but that’ll be good for both of them, too.

The world is, Erik decides, very good, right now.

_Yes. It is. And—_ “You found me chocolate-covered pineapple!”

“Happy…post-Valentine’s Day recuperation?” _I love you._

_I love you. And I love that you found me chocolate-covered pineapple,_ Charles says, blissfully happy, and reaches over and takes his hand.

That hand is solid and warm and alive, in his. Erik glances down at it, then back up, and meets blue eyes, looking into his. Thinks again about those adjectives. Blissfully happy.

He thinks he might know, now, exactly how that feels.


End file.
